


where the light bends at the cracks

by flimsy



Category: Bandom, Panic At The Disco
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-11
Updated: 2012-04-11
Packaged: 2017-11-03 11:51:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/381067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flimsy/pseuds/flimsy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe it's comfort.</p>
            </blockquote>





	where the light bends at the cracks

**Author's Note:**

> beta'd by violentfires ♥

Vegas is not his city anymore. There’s Spence’s house, yes, and Brendon’s, too, warm and welcoming, closer to ‘home’ than anything Ryan’s ever felt before. There’s the Smoothie Hut Brendon used to work at, and the empty garage they rented as practice space back then. There’s the diner Ryan would eat in on days when his father just wouldn’t wake up or was too awake. 

It’s all still there, unchanged and in the right place, but it all feels wrong to Ryan. He sits in his – _his_ – house, his room, opened boxes all around him, books and writing pads and CDs scattered, all his belongings crammed in here because he doesn’t know how to put them somewhere else. He cannot put his books in the empty shelves down in the living room or hang his clothes into the closet in the master bedroom. He cannot even leave his room with expecting to be hit for. Something. 

“Maybe,” Spence said when he helped Ryan move his things upstairs, “maybe you need to− maybe you should sell the house.” 

“Maybe,” Brendon said when he came to bring some of his mom’s cooking, “maybe you should like, refurnish. Redecorate. I could help.” 

Ryan nodded, but deep inside he knew and still knows that he can do neither. Maybe, he thinks, maybe he’ll be stuck in here forever. 

On his fifth day in the house, alone (and yes, Brendon offered to come, and Spence did, and Ryan knows they’re there for him, knows he’s putting himself in this situation), on the fifth day Ryan picks up his phone and calls Jon. It’s not because he thinks ‘hey, I should call Jon’ but when he sifts through a box a note falls from one of his old, battered notebooks. It has Jon’s Chicago home number, and something inside Ryan starts to thrum, hum at the thought of calling Jon, as if the note is telling him that it would be a good idea.

He dials the number carefully and there’s nothing but static over the line for a moment until Jon’s voice says: “Who’s there?” 

“Uhm, hi,” Ryan says and crosses his legs, digging his toes into the duvet of his bed. 

“Who’s there? This is a private number.” Jon sounds a little pissed. 

Ryan swallows and replies: “Uh, hey, it’s me, Ryan.” He feels stupid because he forgot that Jon doesn’t have his home number, just his cell number. 

“Oh, Ryan! Hey, sorry ‘bout that. I got three calls from fuck-do-I-know-who today, and I just got out of the shower and – hey, don’t eat that! – heh, Dylan.” Jon stops and Ryan can practically hear him smile. “How’s it going? How are you? Good to hear your voice.” 

“Good to hear yours too. I’m fine,” Ryan lies, stops and then says, quietly, “No, I’m not. I. Jon.” 

He hears something creak, bedsprings or an old couch, and has to smile because apparently Ryan isn’t the only one unwilling to let go of broken furniture. 

“Talk to me,” Jon says after a moment. “What’s going on?” 

Ryan sighs and closes his eyes. Inhales, exhales deeply and then starts to tell Jon about all the things that are bothering him. About how echoes seem to be lingering in the hallways and the space between the walls and how he can’t unpack his boxes and how he can’t make himself call Brendon or Spence or _anyone_ in Vegas, any of his old friends. 

Ryan stops talking after a few minutes, bites his lip, embarrassed, unsure. 

“Okay,” Jon says over the phone, and again, “okay.” And a moment later, “Okay, look, I wanted to come down to Vegas next month, but I can probably reschedule. I could− I could come earlier.”

“Oh,” Ryan answers and then realizes what that implies. “Oh, no, Jon, seriously, don’t worry. I’ll be fine. You don’t have to −” 

“It’s okay. It’s not like I have anything to do here anyway.” 

“No, really, you honestly don’t have to do that, Jon. I’m fine, I mean, not fine, but I will be. And, sorry. Sorry, I shouldn’t.” Ryan stops because he doesn’t know what to say anymore. Maybe he’s apologizing too much, maybe not enough. 

“Hey,” Jon says, voice soft. “Hey, look, this really is a win-win deal for me. I miss all of you. I need to get out of Chicago.” He pauses. “And you have room to spare.”

“Uhm,” Ryan says, “yes, yes, I do.” There’s enough room, really, too much. 

-

Jon doesn’t bring much with him from Chicago. He’s got a duffel bag, a backpack, his bass and his cat. Considering he doesn’t know how long he’s going to stay in Vegas, Ryan thinks that’s pretty spartan, and also very Jon-like. 

Ryan picks him up in his C55, Spence in the passenger seat and Brendon − twitchy, restless Brendon − in the back. They’re late, only a little, but when they arrive Jon has already found his way out of the luggage area and is heading outside. 

“Hey, Jon Walker!” Brendon yells, standing on his toes to see over the heads and shoulders of people streaming towards the exit. 

“Jon!” Ryan echoes and Jon spots them a moment later, face splitting into a grin, wide and happy, just _Jon_ and Ryan’s heart jumps a little, twinges a little. 

“Hello, hello,” Jon says when he reaches them. He puts down his things and gives each of them a hug; he smells of soap and maybe citrus and mossy-good, and Ryan closes his eyes and inhales deeply, nose buried against Jon’s neck. 

“I missed you guys,” Jon says when Spence picks up his duffel bag.

“We missed you too, lots and lots,” Brendon replies, already attached to Jon’s arm like a fifth limb. 

“I’m so glad you’re here now,” Spence says, “you have no idea. It’s like, when the holidays are over and your kids are finally back at school.” He grins, lopsided. Jon laughs and Brendon makes and indignant noise, nose scrunching up. 

“You can sleep over at my house. My brother finally moved out so I have a room for myself. It’s awesome,” Brendon says, but Jon shakes his head still smiling. 

“I heard Ryan’s got some space left.” He glances at Ryan sideways, hazel eyes alight, soft, and Ryan feels something within him come loose, untangling, as if all he’s been waiting for is someone to look at him like that. 

-

Ryan doesn’t give Jon a tour of the house after they arrive for two reasons: there’s not much to see anyway, and Jon looks like he’s about to fall asleep on the spot. Spence can see that, too, because he drags, _drags_ Brendon away, and tells Jon to lie down, _now_. 

After they’re gone, Jon drifts away on the couch, Dylan, purring, curled up on his belly, until Ryan manages to lure him away with a piece of catsnack found in Jon’s bag. 

He’s a funny cat, with bright green, alert eyes, and a dab of white on his forehead. Ryan tries to forget that he’s not a cat person and sits down on the floor to feed him snacks. Each time he’s finished one, he nuzzles Ryan’s hand for more, nose wet, tongue darting out to catch what’s left of the chicken smell on Ryan’s fingers. 

After a while he loses interest in both the food and the new human, and finds himself a comfortable spot on the window seat. 

Ryan sighs and climbs to his feet, joints cracking because he sat in the same position for too long. From the couch, Jon chuckles quietly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. 

“Consider it a huge achievement that Dylan so much as looked at you. He ignores _me_ half the time,” he says and sits up, rolling his head, stretching joints. 

“Oh, well, I’m charming,” Ryan says and knows, as he speaks, that he sounds not half as confident as he wants to. He never does, never, never. He can write those words, make them sound, on paper, as if full of confidence, but his voice always betrays him. 

Jon laughs at that, but not mocklingly so, just amused and sweet, and _ohgod_ , Ryan thinks as he feels his stomach lurch a little. 

“How about we tour Vegas? I haven’t seen much of it yet,” Jon says, tilting his head.

“Uhm. Just. Not today, okay?” Ryan answers, biting his lip, worrying until he finds something to change the subject to. “You hungry? We could order something.” Ryan stretches his back, watches Jon’s eyes follow his movements. 

“How about we eat out?” Jon sits up and wiggles his naked toes against the hardwood floor. “Not like, fancy, just dinner.” 

“Uhm,” Ryan says because he’s not sure he wants to set foot into Vegas again yet. 

“Come on,” Jon urges and gets up. “I can wear my flipflops _outside_. That’s awesome.” 

Ryan bites his lip. “Okay,” he says. “Okay, let’s.” 

“Great!” Jon grins. “Just, let me−” He starts rummaging in Ryan’s half-empty fridge and then sets down a bowl of milk and another bowl with catsnacks on the floor next to the sink. “If we go without leaving him food first, he won’t look at me for a week.” Ryan smiles because Jon sounds so serious about this. 

“We can walk there,” Ryan says and Jon doesn’t object so they leave by foot, down the street not quite half a mile and enter the little diner at the corner. The waitress behind the counter recognizes Ryan, not because he’s Ryan Ross but because he’s the kid who always orders chicken sandwich and a glass of peach juice and sits in the booth right at the back for hours and hours, scribbling in a battered notebook. 

“We could call Spence and Brendon,” Ryan says when they sit down; he feels guilty for not doing so, for keeping Jon all to himself. 

“Mhnmh,” Jon answers, browsing the menu, and Ryan reaches for his Sidekick to text first Spence and then Brendon, too. When he looks up again, a waitress is waiting for them to order, pen tapping against her spiral writing pad, _tack tack tack_. She’s new, young, and there’s something in her eyes that tells Ryan that she must recognize them at least unconsciously. It makes his guts twist, and he swallows dryly. 

Jon orders, hamburger, fries, coffee, and oh hey, orange juice, please, and Ryan says: “Chicken sandwich, and, uhm, do you still have that peach juice here? I’d like that, but watered down a little.” 

She nods. “Got that.” Juts down a few words quickly and disappears behind the counter. 

“You feeling any better yet?” Jon asks after a few seconds of silence, hands splayed out on the table, long fingers, tanned skin.

Ryan considers lying for a second, but this is Jon and he cannot lie to Jon the same way he can’t lie to Spence and can’t lie to Brendon. “Different,” he answers a moment later, propping his chin on his palm. 

“I’d call that an improvement,” Jon says softly and smiles. “I felt like shit when I came back to Chicago. My mom told me I looked like a zombie, and that’s exactly what I felt like,” Jon continues. “It’s only a matter of time until you’ll get used to it again. Pete told me it’s the off-road-shock.” 

Ryan smiles, imagining Pete writing emotional blog entries about being off the road and talking to Jon Walker, consultant extraordinaire, about it. There’s something soothingly normal about that thought. Maybe he will text Pete about it later, just to tease him a little. Maybe Pete will have time to listen to a few of his new lyrics, too, so maybe he’ll call him. 

Jon makes an appreciative sound when their food is set down in front of them. Ryan feels his stomach rumble and picks a piece of chicken from the plate and pops it into his mouth, while Jon licks his fingers clean from fry grease. Ryan takes a bite from his sandwich, sweet bread and sauce, and yes, Jon was right, it was a good idea to come here. 

Jon chuckles and reaches over the table, thumbing the side of Ryan’s mouth, pulls back and licks a bit of sauce from his finger. Ryan freezes a little, heart jumping at the feel of Jon’s skin, calloused from bass strings, against his own. 

“Orgy?” Brendon’s voice suddenly says behind him, and Ryan jumps, nearly dropping his sandwich, while Spence tells him that he’s a bastard for not ordering for them beforehand. 

-

They huddle together in front of the TV in Spence’s house later that evening, four pairs of legs entwined, arms tossed, limbs and chaos, Brendon’s elbow digging into Ryan’s side, Spence’s legs thrown over his own and Jon’s arms around him. Ryan feels safe and warm and maybe comfortably squished. It’s good, he thinks and buries his nose in Jon’s neck. 

He feels Jon sigh, his breath fluttering in Ryan’s hair. He pulls Ryan closer until he sits curled up in his lap and Jon’s arm fits snugly around his waist. 

“That’s nice,” he mumbles and closes his eyes. Jon’s all warm against him, comfort and safety. Jon hums into his hair, sounding content. 

“Hey,” Brendon grumbles next to him. “You’ve never sat in my lap.” Ryan isn’t sure if he’s serious or not, always hard to tell with Brendon, always. 

“Because you’re not as comfortable,” he eventually answers, turning a little.

“Huh,” Brendon says, and then is quiet for a long time, atypically, until Spence decides ten episodes of the O.C is enough for one evening, and it’s really late already anyway and they should go to bed, so he turns off the TV and pushes Brendon off the couch. Jon groans quietly and shifts, pulling himself up and Ryan with him. Ryan stumbles a little, but Jon catches him around the waist, pulling him up and towards Spence’s room. 

They tumble down, four tired bodies, Ryan and Jon on a mattress on the floor, while Spence claims the bed to himself for mere seconds until Brendon manages to wiggle his way under the blanket and holds on until Spence gives up. 

Jon wraps his arms around Ryan’s middle and pulls him close. Ryan closes his eyes, heart beating high in his throat. 

-

“Where does that go?” Jon asks and waves at a carton of books. They’ve moved most of Ryan’s boxes down here, and are halfway through putting the content into shelves. Dylan is watching them with suspicion from his window spot. 

“Uhm, that shelf,” Ryan answers and points at the shelf at the far end of the living room. 

He walks over to Jon and pulls three books from the box, puts them in the shelf. Jon joins him a moment later, balancing the box on the side arm of the couch. 

“Any order?” Jon asks as he puts Murakami next to Palahniuk, and Ryan shakes his head, reaching around Jon to retrieve a few more books. “No, no, doesn’t really matter.” 

Jon turns, long fingers dipping into the box again, his other hand curling around Ryan’s waist to prevent stumbling, maybe, but Ryan turns, suddenly pressed flush against Jon, noses bumping, Jon’s hand splayed out on the small of his back. 

Ryan swallows dryly and dips his head a little, and then Jon’s kissing him softly, flicking his tongue over Ryan’s lower lip and Ryan parts his lips. They lose balance a little, the box tumbles down and spills its content all over the floor, but Ryan doesn’t care. He wraps his arms around Jon’s neck and kisses back. 

-

“Hi,” Ryan says breathlessly after Spence’s has picked up the phone. 

“Yes?” Spence asks. He sounds unnerved, which may be explained by Brendon’s voice in the background. “You know, it’s unfair that you’re hogging Jon all to yourself. Brendon is setting up camp here, Ryan.” 

“Oh, uhm, sorry,” Ryan replies, thrown off for a moment. “I,” he continues because all of a sudden he doesn’t know anymore how to say it. 

“Is everything okay?” Spence sounds worried now. 

“He kissed me,” Ryan blurts out. 

“Oh, that’s nice,” Spence says and then, “Wait, what, who kissed you?” 

“Jon Walker.” Ryan sits down on his bed. 

“Well,” Spence says slowly. “Well, that’s actually not that surprising.” 

In the background Ryan can hear Brendon yell, “Hey, what? Are you talking to Ryan? Did you just ask him who kissed him?” 

“Yeah, yeah, shut up, Brendon,” Spence’s voice says, distantly as if he’s turned away from his phone. 

“Let me talk to Ryan,” Brendon answers but Spence shushes him, and continues into the phone, “Why? What happened?”

“I don’t know.” Ryan pauses. “It’s. We were unpacking my books, and it just happened.” He wants to ask Spence what he’s supposed to do but he doesn’t really have to say the words. He knows Spence can hear the question anyway. 

“Did it feel good?” Spence asks after a moment as if he’s really reading his thoughts. “Did it feel right?” 

Ryan nods and then realizes, belatedly, that Spence can’t see him. “Yeah. It did.” 

Spence sighs. “Okay. Okay. We’ll talk later when I find something to shut Brendon up, alright?”

Ryan hms into the phone and snaps it shut after Spence has hung up. His heart is still thrumming high in his chest, adrenaline and endorphin making his blood buzz. 

-

A string on Brendon’s guitar snaps with a loud ping. It takes Ryan a moment to register what happened and another to answer Brendon inquiring for new strings. Spence is examining him thoughtfully, drumsticks twirling in his fingers, right foot tapping an idle beat on the hardwood floor of Ryan’s - _Ryan’s_ – living room. 

“So, how many lyrics do we have?” Jon asks, padding in from the kitchen, a tray with cups of hot chocolate in his hands. 

“Awesome!” Brendon exclaims grinning as Jon puts a cup into his hands. 

“Four or five that’ll probably stay the way they are, and about a million ideas und half-finished ones,” Ryan answers Jon’s question, palming his own cup of hot chocolate. 

“I also wrote some stuff,” Brendon says between gulps, his glasses slightly askew. 

“Yeah, but all of it _sucks_ ,” Spence counters, licking his spoon. Now that he’s put away his drumsticks, Dylan has curled up in his lap. Spence doesn’t look happy, though, Ryan thinks. Spence rather looks as though he’d want one of his retrievers here instead of a cuddly cat. 

Jon sits down next to Ryan, brushing his fingers over Ryan’s neck for a second, before settling back against the cushions. “But we’re making progress, right? Four − five full lyrics isn’t bad. It’s only February.” 

_I wrote all of these on the road. I haven’t written anything since we came back_ , Ryan doesn’t say. He takes another sip from his cup and closes his eyes. He feels Jon reach for his neck again, massaging slightly, and when he opens his eyes again, Brendon is staring at them, his cup forgotten in his hands. 

Spence clears his throat and shifts until he’s lying back in his armchair. Dylan purrs contently. “I don’t think there’s any sense in trying to force anything. How about a movie or something?” 

Ryan shrugs and then nods, but Brendon rolls his shoulders, puts his cup down. “I don’t feel like a movie.” He gets up and slings his guitar belt over his shoulder. “I’m just gonna go home.” He stops at the door, not looking at Ryan, but at Spence, and Ryan doesn’t know what to say and if he’s even supposed to say anything at all. 

Spence shoots him a look, and Ryan puts his cup down and follows Brendon into the hallway. 

“Hey,” he says, watches Brendon pull on his jacket. “Hey, you should stay.” 

“Huh,” Brendon says, but doesn’t quite look at him. 

“Brendon,” Ryan hisses and lets the door to the living room fall shut behind himself. He leans against it, carefully, swallowing. “Don’t be like that.” 

“I can be whatever way I wanna be,” Brendon counters, slipping on his Vans. “And you. And he.” Brendon stops; he bites his lip and then Jon’s pushing the door open, Spence in tow. 

“You’re not really gonna leave, are you?” Jon asks, brows furrowed, looking worried. Ryan forces his eyes shut and wishes Jon could put everything back together the way it was before. 

“I’m kinda tired,” Brendon replies, and then Spence is squeezing past Jon into the hallway. He reaches for his shoes, toeing them on. 

“My mom called,” he says. “She wants me to pick up my brother from drama club.” He gives Ryan a short, calculating look before continuing: “Wanna come, Brendon?” 

Brendon nods quietly and wrenches the door open; he doesn’t wait for Spence to finish dressing, just trudges down the pathway, hands in the pockets of his jacket, shoulders hunched. Spence waves goodbye, and softly shuts the door behind himself. 

-

That night, Ryan wakes unexpectedly from a nightmare he can’t remember; what’s left is just a funny feeling of fear and running in his guts. He sits up and rubs his eyes, curls his toes against the rug in front of his bed before getting up. He pads down the stairs into the kitchen to get a glass of water because his throat feels dry and unused, sticky. 

Dylan hisses at him, but seems pacified when Ryan pours him a bowl of milk. He leans against the counter, watches the cat for a moment and then closes his eyes, sighing. A moment later fingers touch his arm shortly and Ryan jumps, eyes flying open, surprised not only by the sudden contact but also by the fact that he did not sense or hear Jon approach him. 

“Nightmare?” Jon asks and Ryan nods, pushing his hair out of his face. 

“I can’t remember anything, though,” he says. “It’s weird.” 

Jon laughs. “Well, I never remember any of my dreams. So, I don’t know, not _that_ weird.” He takes the glass Ryan used previously from the counter, fills it with water and empties it in one go. Ryan watches his throat work, the lines of his neck, the scruff of his beard. Jon puts the glass back on the counter, smacks his lips and then Ryan leans in and kisses him carefully on the mouth, threads his fingers through his hair. 

For a moment it feels like a mistake, as if Jon isn’t going to respond, but then an arm sneaks around his waist and Jon’s body presses forward, pinning him to the counter. His beard feels scratchy, but good against Ryan’s freshly shaved cheeks, and his mouth still bears a faint taste of toothpaste. 

Ryan opens up, lets Jon take control, moans faintly, embarrassed, as Jon bites his lip softly and lifts him on the counter. He sighs, pulls back and kisses the side of Ryan’s mouth, nuzzles his neck, and moves back to cover his lips again, kissing him slowly, as if he’s deliberately tasting him. 

Ryan moans again, less self-conscious this time, and pulls Jon closer. This is different, he thinks, it feels safe. Jon draws back once again a moment later and pulls him close. Ryan buries his face against Jon’s neck and holds on. Maybe it’s a little awkward, hugging like this, with Ryan half-sitting on the counter and Jon’s hips between his legs, his cock half-hard pressing into Ryan’s thigh. But maybe, Ryan thinks, when Jon moves to kiss him again, deeper this time, hungrier, maybe it’s just perfectly alright this way.

-

Ryan hangs up after a minute of waiting and dials Brendon’s home number. This is the fourth time he’s tried it on his cell, and maybe he’ll get lucky this way. And really, after ringing twice, Brendon’s sister picks up the phone. 

“Hi, it’s Ryan,” Ryan says. 

“Hey,” she answers. “Brendon tells me to tell you that he’s not here. Or something. Did you two have a fight?” 

“Uhm,” Ryan struggles for words. It’s not that they had a fight, _something_ , similar to a fight maybe, and Ryan isn’t so sure yet what it was. “Kind of. So he’s not gonna talk to me?” 

Brendon’s sister laughs; Ryan remembers her wide, open smile. “Oh, he _will_. I have his Sidekick, so I’m kind of in a position of ultimate power right now.” 

“I hate you!” Brendon says in the background, but a moment later there’s shuffling and then Brendon grunting a ‘Hello’ over the line. 

“Hey, I just.” Ryan stops, rubs his eyes and continues. “I just wanted to know whether you’re, you know, alright. Whether we’re okay.” 

Brendon sighs; it’s as if Ryan can physically feel his hesitation. “Yeah,” he finally answers slowly. “Yeah, we’re cool.” A pause. “Look, I’ll call you later. I have this. Thing. Just. I’ll call you later, okay?” 

“Yes,” Ryan says because he doesn’t quite know what else to say or do. Brendon hangs up and Ryan puts the phone down. For a moment he considers calling Spence, but then he remembers him saying something about Romeo and Juliet and his brother and the drama club. He wanders down into the living room, on his way to the kitchen, but stops dead in the doorway when he hears Jon talking to someone on the phone. 

Cassie, he thinks, for Jon’s voice is soft and he’s laughing occasionally. Ryan braces himself and passes through the room on his toes. Jon’s sitting curled up on the couch, reading the newspaper, phone tucked between ear and shoulder. 

He gives Ryan a little wave when he sees him and Ryan ducks his head and slips into the kitchen. Looks for the water kettle for a moment and then fills it and puts it on the stove. Tea is always a good idea. He rummages in his tea drawer for a moment and then pulls out the tin box with the cherry flavored tea he bought in New Orleans. Dylan is prowling around his legs, begging for attention.

“Hey,” Jon sticks his head around the corner, grinning at him. “Tea?” 

“Cherry,” Ryan smiles back at him, fills two paper bags with tea leaves, ties them and puts each in a mug. 

“I’m impressed, Ryan Ross,” Jon smirks and presses close, loping his arms around Ryan’s waist pressing a kiss to his nape. 

“Jon,” Ryan says after a moment, putting rock candy into each mug. “Jon, what is this?” 

“Sugar,” Jon evades and licks his ear. His hands slide to Ryan’s hips, push under his T-shirt and start playing with the waistband of his jeans. Ryan sighs, reaches for the kettle and pours hot water in the tea mugs. Jon pushes a little, turns Ryan in his arms and kisses him, licks the side of his mouth, and Ryan sighs. Maybe, maybe, this really is sugar. 

-

_Tomatoes,_ _milk_ _,_ _laundry detergent_ _, shampoo_ ; Ryan quietly reads his shopping list to himself as he pushes his cart through the aisle. He feels funny; not uncomfortable, or as if someone’s watching him, just _odd_. He hasn’t been shopping for groceries in so long he can’t even remember the last time anymore; on the road there was always fast food, or on good days eating in hotel lounges, and after he returned to Vegas, filling the kitchen, the house with things that would inevitably turn it into his _home_ again was the last thing on his mind. 

“Poptarts,” Spence says coming around the corner and putting three packs into Ryan’s shopping cart. 

“Aren’t you like, supposed to convince me of the benefits of healthy food?” Ryan asks with a grin and heaves a milk container into the cart. 

“That’s what my _mom_ said,” Spence huffs. “You need chocolate chip cookies, that’s what _I_ say.” 

“And cat food. And hey, wasn’t there this special cat milk, too? I saw it on TV.” Ryan pushes the cart around a corner, Spence padding after him, filling the cart with unhealthy food. 

“Huh, yeah. So, Jon’s gonna stay at your place?” 

Ryan shrugs, nods and then shrugs again, trying to decide between chicken and fish flavored for Dylan. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“He broke up with Cassie?” And that’s the do-you-know-what-you’re-doing tone. Ryan winces. 

“No, but it’s not like that. Kind of.” He stops and turns to look at Spencer. “Look, Spence, can we like, not talk about this right now?” 

Spence tilts a brow but doesn’t say anything about it anymore.

-

“So,” Jon says and pushes his hands under Ryan’s hoodie. “So, are you going to show me your city tomorrow?” 

“Huh? What, what?” Ryan looks up, startled both by the sudden contact and the question. Jon wiggles until Ryan makes room on the couch. He picks the Teen Vogue from Ryan’s hands and tilts his chin so he can kiss him better. Ryan sighs and opens his mouth, rubbing his tongue against Jon’s. 

“Oh, I like it when you’re being placid,” Jon whispers against his neck, zipping his hoodie open, pushes under his T-shirt, spreading his fingers over Ryan’s naked skin. 

“Shut up,” Ryan hisses, breath hitching, pulling Jon down for another kiss. He bites his lip softly, draws it between his teeth, tugs at Jon’s hair. Jon growls softly and rolls his hips against Ryan’s, his dick hard against Ryan’s thigh. Ryan moans, warmth pooling in his stomach, and sits them up. 

Jon gives him a questioning look, mouth open and soft; Ryan thumbs his lower lip for a moment and then slips from the couch onto his knees, hands already on Jon’s fly. 

“Oh god,” Jon says, voice breaking, breath shaking a little. Ryan grins up at him and digs his fingers into his pants, pulling on cloth and flesh until Jon’s hard cock slips free. He mouths the tip for a moment, and then sinks down, curls his tongue over the underside, stroking. 

Jon makes a desperate noise and Ryan grins around his dick, pulls back, licks the tip and then goes down again, all the way, covering what doesn’t fit with his fingers. Jon’s hand finds his head tentatively, only a slight touch without pressure as if he’s afraid Ryan might stop. Ryan sucks harder and sneaks his free hand inside Jon’s pants to cup his balls. Jon’s hips jerk forward and Ryan chokes a little, pulling back, continuing to stroke Jon’s dick with his hand. 

“Can you−” Jon stops, hand curling over Ryan’s nape, and Ryan nods and bends down again, but Jon tugs at his shoulder. “No, no, come up here.” 

“Huh?” he wonders, climbing into Jon’s lap. “That’s novel.” He pulls his hoodie and his shirt off and helps Jon out of his T-shirt. 

“Oh, really?” Jon teases and tugs at Ryan’s jeans. Ryan slides off his lap for a moment, wiggling out of the bothersome garment, pulling his socks off and after a moment of thought and a glance at Jon already completely naked, also his boxerbriefs.

“And you see,” Jon continues, mockingly, “that is why.” He wraps his fingers around Ryan’s cock and strokes; Ryan moans and falls back against the cushions, hooking a leg around Jon’s waist to pull him in. 

Jon kisses him and rocks against him, rubbing his cock against his thigh, still stroking Ryan’s own dick. Ryan wraps his legs around Jon’s middle and whimpers against his lips. Jon chuckles and moves from his mouth to his neck, nuzzling the soft spot behind his ear. 

“Hey,” Ryan says, voice hoarse. “Hey, are we—are we−” He stops, not sure how to word this. 

“If you like,” Jon murmurs against his ear and Ryan bites his lips to keep himself from making any sounds. 

“Okay, okay.” He pushes at Jon’s shoulders and stumbles to his feet, unsteady. “Just—I’ll be right back.” 

Jon makes a displeased noise, but Ryan only takes about five seconds to the bathroom for lube and condoms and back again, which is, really, a world record. Jon doesn’t give him much time for recovery, just pulls him into his lap, palming his ass. 

“Sure?” he asks, unnecessarily, and Ryan nods frantically and drops the lube into Jon’s hand. He falls forward, burying his face in Jon’s neck, while Jon ghosts a slick, cold finger over his opening and pushes in. He shivers and Jon wraps his free around his cock, stroking slowly in rhythm with his finger before adding another. 

“Tell me when it hurts,” Jon mumbles, voice hitching a little, and Ryan just pushes against his fingers because he can’t really formulate an answer right now with Jon fingerfucking him slowly, steadily. He feels the stretch, the familiar burn, but it’s so _good_ , and it’s been too long, and god, he just wants Jon’s cock inside him. 

He fumbles for the condoms, rips a pack open and rolls it onto Jon cock; Jon’s hips twitch a little, Ryan presses their mouths together and reaches to his back to tug at Jon’s wrist. Jon pulls out, gives his own cock few little strokes and rests his other hand on Ryan’s hip. 

“Now?” And Jon nods, rubbing his nose against Ryan’s chin, and Ryan carefully grasps his cock and sits back, steadying himself on Jon’s shoulder. He closes his eyes, guides the head in, the stretch heavy, deep, and he groans, keeps his body moving until Jon’s completely inside. Jon licks his collarbone and his hands move from his hip to Ryan’s thighs, massaging lightly. His breath is labored, hard, and he’s pushing up, only a little. 

“It’s okay,” Ryan presses out between his teeth and grinds down, twice, rhythm hot in his blood. 

Jon groans his name, grips his hips again and moves against him, thrusting inside him hard, fast. Ryan holds onto Jon’s shoulder harder, meets his thrusts, head falling back. He can feel where Jon’s fingers will leave bruises on his skin, and where he will have bite marks and beard burn; he moans and rocks back harder, throat tight with sounds he doesn’t want to let out yet. 

“Ryan,” Jon growls hoarsely and wraps his fingers around Ryan’s cock, stroking lightly, circling the tip with his thumb. Ryan’s hips jerk and he loses his rhythm, body going slack. Jon pushes him up and back against the couch, cock slipping out of him for a moment before Jon hitches his legs up and thrusts back in, jerking Ryan off in pace with his thrusts. 

“You like that?” Jon asks breathlessly, fingers digging into Ryan’s thigh, teeth on his lips, and Ryan nods squeezes his eyes shut, back arching off the upholstery as he comes, ejaculating over Jon’s hand and his own stomach. Jon groans, thrusts speeding up, driving Ryan against the armrest, before he comes freezing in midmotion, Ryan’s name tumbling from his lips again. 

He collapses atop of him, pulls out squirms until they’re back to chest on the narrow couch. Ryan makes a disgusted sound and twists until Jon lets him sit up. 

“Ew,” he says and rubs his nose, but pulls back when he sees that there’s sticky sperm on his fingers. “We should go clean up,” he continues and Jon kisses his neck, drags them both up and to the bathroom. 

“I meant alone,” Ryan says but Jon closes the door, pulls, drops the condom into the toilet and pushes Ryan into the shower cabin, hands on his waist. Ryan decides that showering together may not be that bad. 

-

Jon drags him from the breakfast table to the car the next day; Ryan hardly has time to put on clothes and brush his teeth, and then they’re already on the way to Spencer’s house. 

“You stole my keys,” Ryan mumbles and rubs his eyes, trying not to fall asleep again. 

“Would you have gone willingly if I’d told you we’d go sightseeing?” Jon grins and shifts into another gear, the engine roaring. Ryan winces at both the sound of the car and the idea of touring Vegas. 

They pick up Brendon and Spence who’re already waiting in front of the house. They both have backpacks and Brendon announces, grinning, when he closes the door to the backseat, that his sister made them sandwiches. 

They spend the day accompanied by the familiar click of Jon’s camera, and Spence explaining, expertly, what they’re looking at, and when they take a break to eat their sandwiches, Ryan realizes, stunned he notices this only _now_ , that it’s the first time since Jon came to Vegas that he’s taking pictures. 

He wants to ask him about it, but Brendon has snuck up to him and is apparently trying to crawl up his hoodie, if the position of his head and his wiggling are any indication for that. Ryan laughs and then bites back a giggle when Brendon’s hands touch his sides, tickling. 

“Stop it,” he laughs breathlessly, pushing at Brendon’s shoulders, and Brendon makes a small displeased sound but stops and goes to annoy Spence who threatens to hit him with his shoe if Brendon doesn’t learn to keep his hands to himself. Jon’s camera clicks nearly without pause, and Ryan closes his eyes, tired and content. 

Later when they’re back in the car and on the way home, Spence in the driver’s seat, Ryan and Brendon curled up on the backseat, Jon says quietly: “Show me that old practicing space of yours.” 

Ryan perks up a little and Brendon smiles, but no one objects and Spence shrugs and turns left at the traffic light instead of right. 

“I don’t know if we can still get in,” Spence says when he stops the car next to the curb; Jon gets out and Ryan and Brendon follow suit. 

It’s already half-dark outside, the light red, warm against houses, cars, asphalt and the faces of the others. The garage still looks exactly the same, dark brown stone and metal. Ryan shivers a little, remembering. Jon hesitantly puts his hand on his shoulder, and Brendon and Spence step closer. 

Spence rattles at the gate, but it doesn’t budge. “We could – we could come again tomorrow,” he eventually says, turning a little to look at them. 

“No,” Brendon says quickly, voice hard, a little cold maybe; he’s watching Ryan from the corner of his eyes, not looking at Spence as he continues. “We should. I think it’s okay now.” 

Ryan feels himself nod, surprised by how accurately Brendon’s words expressed what he’s thinking. 

“Okay,” Spence answers slowly, brows raised, and then Jon is pushing at Ryan’s and Brendon’s shoulders.

“Turn around, I want to take a picture.” 

Ryan turns and smiles, the sunset making him blink a little while Jon’s camera clicks happily. Brendon’s and Spence’s presences are warm at his side; Brendon’s hand rests softly on the small of his back, and Ryan’s shoulders are brushing Spencer’s.

_Click, click_ , Jon’s camera makes, and then Spence waves him over, and Jon balances the camera on top of Ryan’s car and hurries to them, putting his arm around Spencer’s shoulder. They huddle together under the red Vegas sun so they’ll all fit into the picture, and for the first time Ryan feels as though he’s come home for real.


End file.
